


Soft Drugs and a Seam Ripper

by Mechanical_Orange



Category: Daredevil (TV), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: And I mean slow, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Post S2, Slow Burn, non-compliant with the punisher S1
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-26
Updated: 2017-05-15
Packaged: 2018-05-29 05:29:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6361363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mechanical_Orange/pseuds/Mechanical_Orange
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It starts how it always does in Hell's Kitchen - coffee, murder, conspiracy. Karen's in too deep before she's even begun, and this time the neighborhood's resident vigilantes may just drown alongside her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. And Circle Gets the Square

She’s heard about those women – the ones who write love letters to serial killers in prison.  The ones who send them dirty pictures and marry them, just to have conjugal visits.  They are groupies, they're delusional, deranged, gullible, susceptible to manipulation.  They are in desperate need of intense therapy.  And Karen Page is not one of them.

 

She’s _not_.

 

Frank Castle is a serial killer, technically.  And he was in prison, technically.  But Karen Page is not a groupie, and she’s not delusional, and she’s sure as hell not easily manipulated.  Frank isn’t one for manipulation anyway; he’d just as soon shoot you as talk to you.

 

So when Karen Page sits at her tiny kitchen table and stares at the dingy wall, she runs these thoughts through her mind carefully and methodically.  And always reaches the same conclusion.  She’s not crazy.  And neither is he.

 

Sometimes she still feels the weight of him, holding her down, shielding her body from a spray of bullets in her tiny studio apartment.  She pretends that she doesn’t like to remember that night (she did get shot at, after all), but she’d be lying.  Then she tells herself it was just the adrenaline, the lack of sleep, of food.  She snaps out of it when she remembers the diner.  It shouldn’t have shocked her so much – on some level she knew what he was capable of, and what he had done.  But when she saw it, right in front of her eyes…

 

Frank Castle is dead.  Life goes on.

 

The implosion of Nelson and Murdock, her new job, Matt’s little secret – well, she’s been pretty busy lately.  She hasn’t seen Matt in a few weeks, months, she’s lost track.  Occasionally she and Foggy meet at a bar near his new firm, but it’s not really the same.  The bar is too bright, too clean, and everyone’s wearing a suit.  The drinks are actually potable and the clientele less shady.  It’s nice to see Foggy, so they don’t say what they’re really thinking – that it’s not the same, that they’re a man down and it hurts, that they might never be as happy as they were when they were broke and bullied. 

 

She grabs some leftover Chinese out of her fridge, and eats while trying to figure out what her next story’s going to be.  Outside she hears police sirens wailing; she wonders if Matt isn’t already there, enacting justice before the police even receive a call.  It’s unbelievable what Matt told her, that he is the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen – preposterous, even.  He’s a lawyer, a _blind_ lawyer – it just doesn’t make any sense.  He explained it to her the best he could, the way his other senses work, that even though he can’t see he knows where you are in a room, and he knows if you’re nervous or excited or scared.  He knows when you move, when you breathe, and whether or not you’ve had a shower that day.  He’s been trained for this his whole life, he tells her.  And now he’s finally putting it to good use.  Karen gets it, she does.  But it’s hard to reconcile the man she knew (thought she knew) with a masked vigilante beating criminals up at night.

 

It’s a lot easier to keep tabs on Matt’s nocturnal activities than Frank’s.  Daredevil is a staple of the crime beat now, and someone’s always got a story about the Devil running across their rooftop.  Frank, though… any one of a number gun deaths could be because of him, but his purported death has everyone’s guard down.  Then again, he might not even be in the city anymore.  Karen doesn’t know, tells herself she doesn’t care.  That it’s for the best.  He wants her to stay away, so she will.

 

Her phone rings – she tries not to jump at the sudden noise (she’s getting better at that) – and looks at the caller.  Unknown number.

 

“Hello?”

 

“Is this Karen Page at the Bulletin?”  It’s a man’s voice, but he’s talking so low she can barely hear him.

 

“Yes, who’s this?”

 

“I have some information you might be interested in.  About bad drugs being pushed on hospitals.”

 

“Okay, can you tell me your name?”  She asks as she scrambles for paper and a pen.

 

“I can’t – not over the phone.”

 

“We can meet somewhere, if you’d like.”  She keeps her voice calm and steady; she doesn’t want her eagerness to scare him off.

 

“Yeah, okay.  The diner on 48th and 9th.  In an hour.”  He hangs up before she can ask him anything else.

 

She glances at the clock – 9:22 P.M.  She’s not scared of going out at night, but cautious.  She packs her .380 in her bag along with her files and notebook. 

 

* * *

 

 

The air still has a bite to it even in March, and she pulls her coat around herself to stave off the chill.  She gets to the diner a few minutes early, but spots what must be her guy in a corner booth.  He’s fidgeting, nudging his cup of coffee back and forth, while his eyes glance around the restaurant.  He spots her by the door and gives a small nod.  The lighting is too dim to get a good look at his face, he’s got a Mets cap pulled low and won’t meet her eyes.

 

“I’m Karen,” she says as she sits across from him.

 

“Kurt,” he mumbles.  “Thanks for coming.”

 

“Of course,” Karen replies.  “What can you tell me?”

 

Kurt glances around nervously before speaking.  He’s quiet, and Karen has to lean in to hear him.  “I used to work at Metro General,” he says.  “In the pharmacy.  I got fired last week.”

 

“Can I get you something, sweetheart?”  Karen looks up, startled.  The waitress is standing at their table, coffee pot in hand.

 

“Coffee please.”

 

“You got it.”  She pours Karen a cup and wander back into the kitchen.  Karen relaxes and takes a sip.

 

“You worked in the pharmacy?” she prompts.

 

Kurt nods.  “A couple weeks ago I started noticing something weird with the drugs we were getting in.”

 

“Weird how?”

 

“It was hard to notice at first, but…”  He leans in even closer.  “The pills – they weren’t the same.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

Kurt reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small plastic bag containing a round white pill.  “This is OxyContin.  Or it’s supposed to be.  It looks like it, but see the imprint?  It usually has an M on it with a square around it, but look.” 

 

Karen leans closer.  The pill has an M stamped on it, but no square.  “So this isn’t OxyContin?” she asks.

“At first I thought it was a misprinted batch, or we changed distributors.  But then I noticed that doctors had to keep upping the dosages for their patients.  So last week I want to the administration.  They said they’d look into it.”

 

“Counterfeit pills?” she asks.

 

He nods.  “The next day they accused me of stealing meds and fired me.  When I got back to my apartment the whole place was ransacked.  They took my laptop and anything related to Metro General.”  He pauses.  “They killed my cat.”

 

“Kurt, I’m so sorry.”  She touches his hand still clutching the coffee mug.  “I’m going to help you.  I’ll figure this out, I promise.  Can you tell me anything else?  Who in administration did you talk to?”

 

“Gill Pierson.”

 

“Okay.”  She takes a breath.  “Do you have a place to stay?  With friends or family?”

 

“Yeah, I got a friend in Brooklyn I’m staying with.”  He slides the pill over to her.  “Take this with you.  For evidence.”  He takes a last swig of his coffee before standing.  “Thanks.”

 

“You’re welcome,” she says.  He walks out of the diner and down the sidewalk as she pockets the pill and tosses some cash on the table.  She hears a car screech outside and looks up.  Kurt is crossing the street as a car whips around the corner, colliding with him as he steps onto the asphalt.

 

For a moment everything is frozen – Kurt’s body suspended in the air over the car’s hood, its tires spinning in place.  And then he crashes down, bouncing off the windshield and sliding onto the road into a crumpled heap.  Karen screams and the car peels away; she doesn’t even catch the license plate number.

 

* * *

 

 

By the time the cops arrive, Karen has mostly collected herself, which is good because Sgt. – no, Detective Brett Mahoney is there and eager for answers.

 

“Why do I keep running into you at these things?” he asks.  She can tell he’s trying to be affable, but his question is pointed.

 

Karen shrugs.  “Just lucky I guess.”

 

“Some luck,” he sighs.  “Can you tell me what happened?”

 

“He was crossing the street and this car came out of nowhere, full speed, and just ran him down.”

 

“Did you get the plate?”

 

She shakes her head.

 

“Color, model?”

 

“It was dark, maybe black or blue.  An SUV, like a suburban or something.”

 

“And you couldn’t see the driver?”

 

“No,” she tells him.  “Whoever it was just took off.”

 

“What can you tell me about the victim?”

 

Karen looks around, making sure no one’s around to hear them.  “I only just met him,” she says.  “He said his name was Kurt.  He was a source.”  She watches as a couple cops load Kurt’s body into the ambulance.  “A few nights ago his apartment was ransacked and his cat was killed.”

 

Brett stares at her.  “And you have no idea why that might be?”

 

“Not definitively,” she hedges.  “But he used to work at Metro General as a pharmacist.  He thought there was something going on with their drug supply.  He got fired for asking questions.  That’s all I know.”

 

“Mm-hmm.”  He pockets his notebook after writing down a few lines.  “You know, just once I’d really like one of you to be straight with me.”

 

She doesn’t need to ask who he’s referring to.  “Stay safe, Karen.  Let me know if you think of anything else.”

 

“I will.” 

 

* * *

 

 

Karen tries to hail a cab to get back home, but there aren’t any around.  She’s on edge, but she sets a brisk pace and keeps one hand in her bag with the gun.  She’s two blocks away from her apartment when someone drops to the sidewalk in front of her.  She barely manages to hold in her shriek while she fumbles for her gun.

 

“Karen, it’s me.”

 

“Matt?”  And sure enough it’s a man in a red costume, devil horns and all.  “Jesus Christ.”

 

“Sorry,” he says.  “I heard about the hit and run.  Are you okay?”

 

“Yeah, I’m fine,” she says.  “What are you doing here?  I haven’t seen you in months.”

 

“I know,” he says.  “I’ve been busy.”

 

“Yeah, me too,” Karen replies.  She brushes past him, onward toward her apartment.  Matt decides to follow.

 

“Karen, wait.  Let me walk you home.”

 

“It’s fine,” she tells him.  “I’m not in danger, and I can defend myself.”

 

“With that gun in your purse?” he asks.  “Where’d you get it?”

 

“Does it matter?”  She stops and turns, facing him, though she knows it doesn’t make a difference.  “Look, I appreciate it, but it’s not necessary.  I’m sure there are other people who need you more than me right now.”

 

He tilts his head to the side, as if listening intently (for all she knows, he probably is).  “Nope,” he says lightly.  “No current damsels in distress right now.”

 

“I’m not exactly in distress,” Karen says, trying not to crack a small smile.  “Or a damsel, for that matter.”

 

“But you are my friend,” he says.  “At least I hope you are.”

 

“And Foggy?”

 

“Foggy too,” he says.  “But I happen to know that right now he is on a date with a very cute bookseller.”

 

Karen does actually smile at that.  “And how do you know she’s cute?”

 

“Foggy tells me I have sixth sense for it,” he grins.

 

“I bet you do.”  She sighs.  “Fine then, you can be a gentleman and walk me home.”  They start off down the sidewalk together, Matt keeping to the shadows.

 

“Are you going to tell me what happened tonight?” he asks tentatively. 

 

She glances at him.  “I assume you know some of it.”

 

“Guy at a diner gets run over.  And you happened to be there.”

 

“Pretty much,” she says.  “But I assume you’re going to find out the whole story anyway, so I might as well tell you.”

 

By the time they get to her place, Matt is up to speed, and their conversation has regained some of the easy comradery they used to share. 

 

“Promise you’ll be careful, Karen,” he says as she unlocks the front door to her building. 

 

“Promise you won’t stomp all over my story before I can get it to print,” she replies.

 

“Actually, I know someone who might be able to help,” he tells her.  “Her name’s Claire Temple; she used to be a nurse at Metro General.  She lives in Harlem now.  She could be a good resource.”

 

“Thanks,” Karen says.  “Maybe if you’re not too busy you, me and Foggy could go for drinks sometime.”

 

“Yeah,” he says.  “I’m sure Josie misses us.”

 

“I know I miss her mojitos.”

 

Matt laughs; it’s good to hear him laugh again.  She’s forgotten how light and warm he can sound.  “I’ll see you, Karen.”

 

“Good night, Matt.”

 

Matt fades into the dark as she enters her building; regardless of what she had told him, she’s glad he found her.  She’s glad they’re talking again.

 

Her apartment’s a sixth floor walk-up and by about the fourth floor she’s really beginning to feel exhaustion set in.  So she’s relieved when she makes it to her door; she swings it open, tosses her bag on the table while shutting it behind her and simultaneously throwing off her shoes.  She’s so preoccupied that she doesn’t notice it at first, but the smell of fresh coffee is permeating her tiny studio.  She whips her head toward the kitchenette where she sees her cheap coffeemaker percolating.  And from the other side of the room she hears a voice, soft and hoarse.

 

“Ma’am.”

 

 

 


	2. Lukewarm and Half-Drunk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the wonderful comments and a special thank you to my amazing beta amidtheflowers!

Karen doesn’t know quite what to say. So she doesn’t say anything.

 

“Heard about what happened,” he says. “Police scanner.”

 

Karen nods slowly.

 

“It’s good that you ran into Red,” he continues. “He’s a good guy.”

 

“Frank, what are you doing here?”

 

He looks around the room; can’t meet her eyes. “The trouble you keep getting in. Wanted to make sure you were okay.”

 

“I’m fine,” she says. “What about you?” He’s looking better than the last time she saw him.  He’s got a couple fresh bruises on his left cheekbone and a split lip, but she doesn’t know what injuries could be hiding underneath his clothes. Not that she is interested in what might be under his clothes, bruises or otherwise.

   

“Yeah. Good,” he grunts. “Made some coffee.”

 

The coffeemaker sputters its last drops into the carafe and goes silent. Frank doesn’t move from his corner of the room and neither does she. She raises her eyebrows in a silent question: _Well?_

 

Frank nods curtly and crosses to the kitchen.  His shoulder brushes hers as he passes by – Karen doesn’t know why, but she doesn’t move out of his way. No, she shouldn’t have to; it’s _her_ apartment. And her coffee for that matter.

 

She doesn’t look at him as he pours a cup – she’s not sure she can. There are a million things racing through her mind and she can’t slow the onslaught; she’s fucking exhausted, but adrenaline is still coursing through her body. Frank Castle is in her apartment and acting as though nothing from the past few months has happened. As if he didn’t murder several people in front of her eyes in some godforsaken diner, as if he didn’t disappear behind a door like a vengeful ghost and leave her on the side of the road one cold night in December.  As if he has some _right_ to be here.

 

“You’ve really got some nerve,” she says – she means it to sound sharp and accusing, but she can only manage a harsh whisper.

 

“Do I?” he says. And his back is to her, but she can hear the smirk in his voice, that half-cocked smile that he uses when he’s reluctantly amused.

 

“I am fine, Frank,” she tells him. “I am completely fine and I have been fine for the past few months, and now you show up here just because of what, a car accident?”

 

“That what you think?” he says. “Come on, you’re smarter than that.”

 

“And what exactly do you know about it?”

 

He leans against the counter sipping his coffee; he still has that stiff, upright posture that former soldiers can never quite shake, but something in him is a little looser, a little…less. “I know that you’re into something. And you’re not going to let it go until you’re staring it in the face and it’s pointing a gun at you.”

 

“I have a gun too.”

 

“Yeah,” he mutters. “You got a gun.  You ever gonna use it?”

 

Something inside of Karen cracks. How dare he?  How dare he waltz in here and dispense judgment on her after everything he’s done?  “Get out, Frank. Just go.”

 

Frank looks surprised, just for a moment, before his features fall back into his inscrutable default. But there’s a glint in his eyes, like a dog that’s picked up a scent, that Karen doesn’t quite understand. He nods again, short, decisive. He sets down his mug and pulls out a black cap from his coat pocket.

 

“I’ll be seeing you,” he says, pulling the hat low over his brow.

 

The front door shuts firmly behind him and Karen doesn’t breathe until she can no longer hear his footsteps down the hall. She makes to dump out his coffee, but it’s still warm and half-full. She drinks it instead.

 

* * *

 

 

Ellison’s all over her the next morning at the office, and Karen’s getting really sick everyone’s patronizing bullshit.

 

“I got a call from a friend in the department, told me you were involved in a homicide last night?”

She sighs. “I witnessed it.” The last thing she needs is yet another lecture, so she keeps on walking. Ellison follows her into her office and closes the door behind her.

 

“And?” he asks.

 

“And it happened right after I spoke to him.” She keeps her tone nonchalant, like this is an everyday occurrence (and hell, it’s starting to feel that way).

 

“He was a source?” Ellison asks.  She can see the wheels turning in his head. It’s a promising story, perversely made even more so by the sudden death of a whistleblower.

 

Karen nods.  “He called me last night out of the blue. He thinks there’s something weird going on with Metro General’s drug supply.”

 

“Did he give you anything concrete?”

 

Karen pulls out the pill from her bag. “He claims this is fake OxyContin. But he didn’t get a chance to prove it before he was fired.”

 

“And then he was killed.”

 

“Yep,” she says.

 

“Shit, Karen, what have you got yourself into now?”

 

“I’m just doing my job,” she says. “The one that you gave me, remember?”

 

“You’re right; I’ll back off.” He puts his hands up in mock surrender. “You got a way of verifying his story?”

 

“I’ve got a lead in Harlem and I’m headed there now.”

 

“Good,” he says. “If I don’t hear from you by tonight I’m calling the cops.”

 

She picks up her bag and flashes him an insincere smile. “I don’t think that’ll be necessary.”

 

“I know a lab that can test the pill,” he says. “They owe me a favor or two.”

 

“Great,” Karen says. “I can send it in tomorrow; I want to show it to my lead first.”

 

“You think that’s wise?” he asks. “You said it’s the only evidence we have so far.”

 

“I only need it for another day,” Karen tells him. “Trust me, I want to know what exactly this is as much as you do.” She jams a notebook into her bag and heads for the door.

 

“I’m serious about hearing from you tonight,” Ellison says as she makes her exit.

 

“I’ll send you a text; I promise.”

 

* * *

 

 

She takes the subway uptown; Claire Temple is listed as a nurse at a clinic in Harlem and Karen hopes that she’ll be willing to talk. Matt didn’t give her too much to go on, but maybe if Claire was fired as ignominiously as Kurt was, she’ll be feeling a little vindictive.

 

“We’re a little busy right now; I don’t really have time to chat.” The clinic is small and crowded with people coughing, sneezing, and moaning. Claire Temple is beautiful (since Matt knows her, that should hardly be surprising), but harried. She’s also incredibly competent at her job, Karen notices, as Claire rushes around the waiting room, herding patients into exam rooms.

 

“I just want a quick word about your time at Metro General,” Karen tells her, trying to get a moment of her time.

 

“Okay, here’s one,” she says. “Over.”

 

“I have some questions about the way Metro General operates.”

 

Claire pauses, and gives Karen a suspicious once-over. “Who gave you my name exactly?”

 

“Um, a mutual friend?” Karen winces.

 

“And this mutual friend is the nocturnal kind?” Claire asks.

 

“You could say that.”

 

“Right.” Claire ushers her into a small breakroom, barely enough room for the two of them.  “What exactly did our mutual friend say?”

 

“He said you used to work at Metro General, and that you might be willing to help me.”  Karen roots around in her bag for the pill. “Last night I met with a pharmacist who told me there was something fishy going with their drug supply.  He gave me this.”  She hands the pill to Claire, who look at it, nonplussed.

 

“OxyContin?” Claire asks.

 

“Yeah,” Karen says. “He says it’s counterfeit.”

 

“They’re worth a lot on the street,” Claire tells her. “It’s pretty common for junkies to come in the ER complaining of pain just to get a few.”

 

“So you think someone could be cutting out the middleman entirely and stealing the pills directly from the distributor?”

 

“It’s possible, but usually administration has a pretty tight handle on those things.”

 

“That’s just it,” Karen says.  “My source brought it up to administration and then he was fired.  They claimed he was stealing pills.”

 

“Why are you asking me, then?” Claire asks.  “Sounds like your source has got everything you need.”

 

“He was killed,” Karen tells her.  “Last night, after our meeting.”

 

“Shit.”

 

“He said he talked to Gill Pierson in administration, do you know him?”

 

“Gill? Yeah, he’s a prick,” Claire sighs.  “He’s the kind of guy who cares more about the bottom line than the actual patients.”

 

“So he could be behind this?” Karen asks.

 

“I don’t think he’s the mastermind, if that’s what you mean,” Claire says. “But someone could’ve made a ‘donation’ to the hospital so he would look the other way. It wouldn’t be the first time.”

 

“He’s done something like this before?”

 

“Yeah, why do you think I quit?”

 

“Honestly, I thought it might have something to do with our mutual friend.”

 

Claire chuckles. “If only I could shake him that easily.” She hands the pill back to Karen.  “Sorry I can’t be more help.”

 

“No, you’ve given me plenty. Thanks.”

 

Another nurse pops her head in looking clearly overwhelmed. “Claire, we’re backed up in here, did you get the vitals for Room 3?”

 

“Be right there,” Claire says. She flashes Karen a pinched smile. “I’ve got to go. Good luck with your story.”

 

Claire gives Karen back the OxyContin and leaves without a backward glance. No nonsense, no bullshit, and it’s no wonder Matt likes her. Karen likes her too.

 

There’s a story slowly forming in her mind, and she starts plotting out her next move on the subway ride back to Hell’s Kitchen. She needs to talk to Gill Pierson and investigate the hospital’s finances, but she’s having a hell of a time figuring out how to do it without alerting anyone at the hospital. As she ponders her dilemma, her phone buzzes with a text from Foggy.

 

**Drinks tonight?**

 

It’s been a couple weeks since Karen’s seen him, and she’s always eager to hear about his insanely rich clients and their ridiculous problems. She replies with an enthusiastic yes.

 

**Josie’s @ 8.**

 

She’s surprised at the suggestion, as she and Foggy have an unspoken agreement to avoid Josie’s since Matt’s been AWOL. She almost suggests another bar, but in the end agrees to it because she can’t deny that she’s a little nostalgic for swill and sticky floors.

 

* * *

 

 

The bar is still just as much as a dive as she remembers, and she spots Foggy sitting at their usual table.

 

“Karen!” he calls. “Grab a seat; I already ordered a pitcher.”

 

“Hey, Foggy,” she says, taking a seat. “Thanks for ordering.”

 

“No problem,” he grins. “You can get the next one.”

 

“Hold on a minute, I’m not the one with a fancy job at a fancy law firm,” she grins.

 

“Yeah, Foggy, you should be treating us,” a soft and familiar voice says. Karen looks up at to see Matt standing behind her, smiling.

 

“Matt, hi,” she says, doing her best not to sound completely and utterly surprised. “I didn’t know you were coming.”

 

“I invited him,” Foggy says. “I hope that’s okay.”

 

“Of course,” she replies. “It’s just been a while.” She knows Matt can’t really see her, but the look he seems to be giving her behind his glasses makes her feel a little chagrined. “Since I’ve seen _you_ ,” she adds, hoping she gets her point across.  He gives her a tiny nod.  A crowded bar isn’t the best place to discuss his nightly activities.

 

“I know,” Matt says as he sits next to her. “And I’m sorry, to both of you. I haven’t really been the best friend to you.”  


Foggy and Karen glance at each other. “Have a drink, Matt,” Foggy says. “And you’re definitely buying the next round.”

 

Matt smiles and holds up his glass. “Cheers.”

 

A few hours later they stumble onto the sidewalk, rosy-cheeked and lightheaded, just like the old days. They’re joking and reminiscing, laughing about Matt and Foggy’s college shenanigans.

 

“You should’ve seen her face when she realized Matt was blind!” Foggy cackled. “Oh man, I think that’s the only reason we passed her class.”

 

Karen laughs and Matt says, “That and the twelve-hour study session right before the final.”

 

“Wow, law school really sounds like a blast,” Karen teases.

 

“It had its moments,” Matt says softly. They fall into a comfortable silence, and Karen checks her phone. She has two missed calls and numerous texts, all from Ellison.

 

“Oh shit,” she mutters, quickly firing off a text.

 

“What?” Foggy asks.

 

“I told Ellison I’d text him tonight so he knows I’m still alive.” She presses send, and looks up, sees the stricken faces of her friends. “What?”

 

“Karen – ” Matt says, grimacing.

 

“No,” she cuts him off. “Don’t even start. I know what I’m doing; I know the risks. And I really don’t need any lectures or handwringing or whatever else you’re thinking about doing.”

 

Foggy sighs. “We just worry, Karen. You’re our friend.” He glances at Matt. “And even though he doesn’t have any room to talk, it doesn’t change the fact that we really don’t want to see you get hurt.” Matt nods in agreement, but is wise enough to keep his mouth shut.

 

“I appreciate that,” Karen says. “I really do. But I’ve learned a few things since Nelson & Murdock and I can take care of myself. Promise.”

 

Foggy leans in and gives her a big hug. “I’m going to hold you to that, okay?”

 

“You got it,” Karen laughs. As Foggy pulls away, Matt touches her arm gently.

 

“If you ever need any help,” he says, and he doesn’t have to finish his sentence.

 

“I’ll give you a shout,” Karen tells him. “Promise.”

 

They say their goodbyes and head their separate ways – Karen feels lighter than she has in a while. The realization had hit her hard during their third round of drinks that she’s been so lonely lately. She hadn’t noticed it before; she’s been busy, and she still sees Foggy every once in a while, but damn – her life is really lacking without nights at Josie’s with Nelson & Murdock.

 

She reaches her building soon enough, and tries to take the stairs up to her floor quickly, but she’s a little too tipsy to manage more than quick mosey. She finds herself relying on the handrail a little more than usual, but she makes it to the sixth floor in one piece and hurries down to hall to her door – which is wide open.

 

Sobriety hits her like a brick wall, and she jams her hand into her bag to reach for her gun.  Quietly, slowly, she enters her apartment, gun pointed in front of her, just like they teach at the gun range. “Hello?” she calls softly. No answer.

 

She looks around and gasps – the place is a wreck. Kitchen cabinets open, their entire contents spilled out, couch overturned with the cushions slashed, and the same with her mattress. Her dresser drawers are pulled out and tossed across the room, her curtains ripped to shreds, the mirror in the bathroom is broken and the insides of the medicine cabinet are scattered across the vinyl floor.  There is nothing in her apartment that hasn’t been opened, broken, and discarded. Someone has been here looking for something, and she has a pretty good idea what.

 

“Shit,” she whispers.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't be afraid to leave a comment! You can also follow me on tumblr at mechanical-orange.tumblr.com!


	3. Clinical Precision

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to thank my incredible beta [amidtheflowers](http://archiveofourown.org/users/amidtheflowers) (go read her fantastic kastle coffeeshop au)! I'd also like to give a very special thanks to Eminem, without whom this chapter would not have been possible.

She checks into a motel with a bag full of her only salvageable possessions.  Detective Mahoney had taken her statement with a kind of resigned resolve that’s becoming his default. She checks in under a fake name and pays in cash just to be safe.  Nothing was taken from her place, as far as she could tell, and she’s lucky that her laptop is still at the office.  She texts Ellison and he calls her back immediately; she manages to calm him down and lets him know to keep an eye on the office until tomorrow.

 

She knows she must be getting close to whomever is behind this, but she still feels like she’s on the fringes of a conspiracy, unable to untangle the knots surrounding its center.  The pill – the one piece of hard evidence she has – is firmly tucked into an interior pocket of her bag, which is honestly the safest place she can think to put it. Despite this piece of physical evidence, she knows she’s still too far from this thing. She peeks out the window before she goes to bed, whether it’s because of a lingering paranoia, or a desire to see the familiar skyline from an unfamiliar place, she can’t really say.

 

She’s about to shut the curtain when she notices movement on the rooftop across the street. It looks like a man, probably just a guy trying to grab a smoke. But then he shifts into the light of a flickering streetlamp, and she can just make out the image of a skull on his chest.

 

Frank.

 

She inhales sharply. He’s been following her. She wishes she could say she’s surprised, but really she’s just pissed off. Frank turned his back on her before; he can’t just waltz back in whenever he wants. She won’t admit to herself that she’s curious about his motives, or that maybe a small part of her feels a lot safer now that she knows he’s nearby. She goes to bed with her back to the window, as if Frank can feel her displeasure from a block away.

 

* * *

 

 

Karen wakes up far too early in the morning. The hotel bed is too soft and lumpy, like some kind of musty marshmallow, and any idea of a restful sleep is a joke.  She gives in to the soft yellow sunlight streaming through the curtains and starts her day with dark circles under her eyes and the low thrum of anxiety buzzing in the back of her mind.

 

There are only a few people at the office when she gets there; just stragglers from the overnight shift and Donna who’s in charge of distribution taking care of some last minute delivery issues. Karen heads straight to her office and makes sure everything’s in place.  Nothing looks disturbed; her laptop is on the desk, drawers closed, files in order. She grabs an envelope out of one of the drawers and puts the pill inside, seals it, and writes “Ellison” on it. Karen slips into Ellison’s office and leaves the envelope on his desk.

 

“Rough night?” Donna asks as Karen passes by her desk.

 

“Something like that,” Karen replies. Donna shoots her a knowing look.

 

“Ben never slept much either,” she tells her.

 

She tries not to flinch when someone brings up Ben.  She’s getting much better at it, but she’s tired and it’s too early and she’s never really talked to Donna before, or anyone in the office except for Ellison, about Ben. It’s still a bit of a sore spot.  “It’s not – I mean, I’m not trying to replace Ben,” Karen blurts.

 

“Relax,” Donna says.  “No one can replace Ben, but honestly I don’t envy you.  Those are some tough shoes to fill.”

 

“Yeah,” Karen agrees.

 

“He always looked like shit too,” Donna teases. Karen knows she’s just being friendly, but it’s a little too true to be funny right now.

 

“Thanks, Donna,” she sighs.  “If you see Ellison can you tell him I’ll be out of the office this morning?”

 

“Sure,” Donna says.  “Get some rest today; you look like you need it.”

 

“Will do.”

 

She doesn’t.

 

* * *

 

 

After a quick stop at a café to grab some breakfast, she pays a visit to Metro General. The receptionist isn’t very helpful, but she worms her way into the administration offices by gently implying she’s still shaken up from being shot at by Frank Castle months ago and now that she’s a journalist, she’s sure people would be very interested in Metro General’s interesting history. She’s banking on the fact that Metro General would rather not rehash that incident in a lawsuit, and she’s right.

 

Gill Pierson is an older man who wears the shabby suit and harried demeanor of a seasoned bureaucrat like a second skin. The kind of man you can’t quite picture any younger than he is – like he was born a mid-level administrator who’s never even entertained the thought of another career.

 

“Ms. Page, how can I help The Bulletin?” he asks. He smiles at her, but it’s insincere. She knows it, and so does he.

 

“I’m doing a piece on the recent violence in Hell’s Kitchen, particularly the incident that occurred here,” Karen tells him.

 

“Incident?”

 

“The Frank Castle shooting,” she reminds him (as if he ever really forgot).

 

“I can assure you, Ms. Page, that we have increased security. And since Frank Castle’s death we haven’t had any more incidents of that nature,” he says in a very well-rehearsed PR tone.

 

“I’ve also heard reports of gang violence in the ER, can you speak to that?” Karen asks.

 

“Well, I don’t know where you’re getting your information, but that was an isolated occurrence. We are confident there will not be a repeat of those incidents.”

 

“What measures have you taken exactly?” she probes.

 

“We have a new head of security and have employed more security guards, as well as installed metal detectors and a silent alarm system.  We are quite secure.”

 

“Do you think I could speak to your new head of security?”

 

“He’s a very busy man, Ms. Page,” Pierson says with an air of finality. But Karen’s not one to take no for an answer.

 

“I really think a quote or two from him would quell any fears people may have about visiting your hospital.” And now for the ace up her sleeve. “I heard you lost some public funding after the Castle incident?” Karen works hard to keep her smile in check; she knows she’s backed him in between the PR version of a rock and a hard place.

 

He looks at her, defeat in his eyes. “Wait right here, Ms. Page. I’ll see if he’s available.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

As soon as the door closes behind him, Karen is on her feet. She starts looking through the files on his desk, but it’s all mundane hospital business. What she needs is the funding and donation records. She quickly moves to his desk drawers, and finds only office supplies and an extra tie. The filing cabinets are next and she pulls them out, rifling through employee records, city permits, licenses, press statements. She tugs on the bottom cabinet. Locked. She returns to his desk, hoping Gil’s lazy enough to keep the keys in there. She shoves pens, paper, rubber bands and paperclips out of the way and there, at the bottom is a set of two small keys. She shoves one of them into the lock on the cabinet and it springs open.

 

Bingo.

 

She grabs donation records from the past few months and scans the list for any outrageous figures. She doesn’t find one lump sum, but she does notice an interesting pattern. Since November there’s been a steady donation every two weeks for $250,000, all from the same company. She snaps a picture of the document with her phone and shoves it back in the cabinet. She can hear footsteps outside the door and they’re quickly getting closer. She slams the drawer shut and locks it, throws the key back into the desk drawer and resumes her seat just as the door opens.

 

Mr. Pierson returns accompanied by a burly man in a beige uniform. “Ms. Page,” Mr. Pierson says. “This is our new head of security Daniel Wade.”

 

“Mr. Wade, so nice to meet you,” Karen says, offering her hand.  His grip is firm, a little too much so, and the way he’s looking at her – it’s like he’s sizing her up.

 

“I understand you have concerns about Metro General’s security, but there’s no need to worry.” He takes a seat in the chair next to her. “That Frank Castle business is behind us, and I can see why you would still be upset by the attack. It was no doubt very traumatic for you, and our security at the time was not adequate to deal with the Frank Castle problem.” His tone is that of someone trying to calm a very startled and irrational farm animal. Karen chafes at the way she’s so obviously being handled, but she knows she needs to keep her cool if she’s going to get out of here without raising suspicion.

 

“I hope you can appreciate why I’m concerned,” Karen says through gritted teeth. “The hospital should be the last place anyone should feel unsafe. If Metro General continues to have these problems, then they need to be brought to light.”

 

“I agree completely, Ms. Page,” Wade says. “Why don’t you come with me and I can show you the new measures we’ve taken.”

 

Karen gets an impromptu tour of the metal detectors, the CCTV room, and the silent alarm system. Wade explains everything with the kind of condescending patience a kindergarten teacher might adopt with a very confused student. Karen is silently infuriated, but she manages to keep her cool; she knew what she was getting into when she concocted this lie. She just has to keep up the ruse.

 

“What do you think, Ms. Page?” Wade asks her at the end of the tour. “Are your fears quelled?”

 

“I feel safer already,” she replies with a forced smile. “Thank you and Mr. Pierson for talking with me today.”

 

She can feel his eyes on her as she leaves and suppresses the urge to shudder.

 

* * *

 

 

Karen checks her phone on the way back to the office; she has a lot of messages from Matt and Foggy, and one from Detective Mahoney. She listens to it first.

 

“Karen, it’s Detective Mahoney. We’ve cleared your apartment. But we have a few questions for you if you could stop by the station today.”

 

The other messages from Matt and Foggy are more along the lines of, “Are you okay? Why didn’t you tell us? Where are you staying?” And this gem from Matt, “You should’ve called me as soon as you got home. I could’ve helped.”

 

She deletes the messages and heads to the police station.

 

“Thanks for coming in, Karen.” Detective Mahoney sits across from her at the interrogation room table. “We did a search of the building and checked for fingerprints, but we didn’t find anything.” He sighs. “Is this related to the hit and run the other night?”

 

“Maybe,” Karen admits. “I think they were looking for something, but weren’t sure who had it.”

 

“And what exactly were they looking for?”

 

Karen shrugs. “Kurt said he had evidence, but he didn’t tell me what.”

 

Mahoney narrows his eyes. “Evidence, huh? Jesus Christ, Karen.” He runs hand over his face. “Alright, tell me; don’t tell me, whatever. I’ll write up the report and make sure to include that you have absolutely no knowledge of why someone might try and break into your home and steal nothing.”

 

“Thanks, Brett.”

 

“Don’t mention it.”

 

* * *

 

 

After talking on the phone with both Foggy and Matt to reassure them, and tell them that their detective friend had been blowing things out of proportion, she gets back to her office and boots up her laptop.

 

She has an email from Ellison, expressing concern from last night and telling her that he got her “message” this morning and it’s been taken care of. She breathes a sigh of relief; she finally feels like she’s getting somewhere.

 

Karen uploads the pictures she took onto her computer and starts running searches on the company, Deltex Inc., and finds that they’re a midlevel manufacturer of plastic goods. They ship all over the state, and they’re doing well; well enough that they’ve started branching out into privatized healthcare, but not enough to make routine donations totaling millions of dollars. Soon Karen is falling into a pit of subsidiaries, shell companies, and corporate doublespeak so deep her brain feels like a wall in the house of a crazy person high on his own conspiracy theories.

 

From what she can gather Deltex is owned by Morris Goods, which is owned by Upton and Co., which is owned by Symco, which is owned by Aeris, and goddamn has Karen never hated vertical integration more than she does now.

 

The trail stops at Aeris, a holding company for which she can find very little information. No address, no CEO, no executive board to speak of. Their website is one page, a stale corporate logo in navy blue against a cream background and some stock photo of corporate America mocking her with empty smiles. She knows it’s a sham, anyone could see that, but it’s a well-disguised one and she’s run out of leads.

 

Her phone buzzes with a text.

 

**47** **th and 6** **th. Bring your gun. -F**

 

* * *

 

 

As much as she hates getting told what to do, she does what Frank asks her. She doesn’t know how he got her number, or what phone he’s texting from. If she had to guess, probably a burner, so she doesn’t bother to text him back. He’s probably destroyed it already.

 

She finds herself in front of small brick-front building with a discreet sign reading “Manhattan Wellness Center.” And in the bottom corner, in very small print, “Made possible by Deltex Inc.” There are a few people mingling outside, but the clinic doesn’t look particularly busy so she goes inside.

 

She’s wrong. The waiting room is full of people, men and women, looking haggard, malnourished and strung out. One by one they’re called to the counter and receive a pill, and it’s slowly dawning on her what exactly this “wellness center” is for.

 

“Wait your turn,” someone says, knocking into her shoulder as they pass by. It’s a thin man, stringy black hair and waxy skin. He receives his pill and downs it quickly. Karen decides to follow him as he leaves; at least she knows this guy is coherent enough to talk.

 

“Hey,” she says. “Wait a minute.” She catches up with him on the sidewalk outside.

 

“Who the fuck are you?” he asks. He’s got an anxious restlessness to him, shifting his weight from foot to foot, eyes darting back and forth.

 

“My name’s Karen,” she tells him.

 

“You don’t look like a junkie,” he says. “Why are you at a methadone clinic?”

 

“I work for the Bulletin.” She pulls him aside and down a narrow alley by the building. “Listen, I got a tip from someone about this place and I just wanted to see if it was legit. Can I ask you a few questions?”

 

“Yeah, okay, make it quick,” he agrees after a brief look around.

 

“How long have you been coming here?” she asks.

 

“Since it opened,” he replies.

 

“When was that?”

 

“November.”

 

“Do they provide anything other than methadone?”

 

He shrugs and looks uneasy. “I don’t know.”

 

“Have you seen anything suspicious?”

 

“Look, this place is free and they don’t ask too many questions. I don’t want to mess up a good thing.”

 

“I understand,” Karen says. “What’s your name?”

 

“Marshall,” he replies.

 

“Okay, Marshall, I promise I’m not going to get you into trouble, but I need you to tell me the truth,” she tells him gently.

 

“Sometimes I see people going in the back, like not just junkies or whatever. Like moms and kids and shit,” he says, clearly agitated.

 

“For methadone?”

 

“Nah, I don’t think it’s for methadone, just like for checkups or something. I see kids come out with a lollipop and a Band-Aid on their arm.”

 

“So it’s like a free health clinic?” Karen asks. “What’s suspicious about that?”

 

“Yeah, I know. The kids look fine, but the parents or whoever, they look…” Marshall trails off, even more nervous than before. “They look how I did when I used to shoot up. Fucked up, you know?”

 

“You think the parents were getting high in the back while their kids were getting check-ups?”

 

Marshall shrugs. “Like I said, I’ve got a good thing going. I don’t want to mess it up.”

 

“Thanks, Marshall,” Karen says. “You’ve been a lot of help.”

 

“Listen, if you need more help or whatever, I usually hang out down by Pier 66.” He turns away and hurriedly heads down 47th.

 

Karen sighs. Now she owes Frank…something. Maybe not quite an apology for kicking him out the other night, but perhaps a truce? The clinic was a good lead, and now she has a new source. Her investigation is finally gaining ground, and with any luck she’ll be able to find the truth behind Aeris by visiting City Hall and its business records tomorrow.

 

It’s getting dark as she starts her trek back the motel; she should probably stay there one more night just to be safe, but she can’t really afford it. She figures now that whoever was after the pill is satisfied that neither Kurt nor she has it, they’ll ease off for bit. At least until she hits another nerve, but this time she’ll see be prepared. Hopefully.

 

Her phone buzzes with another text, unknown number.

 

**Turn left on 7** **th. -F**

 

She’s approaching the intersection and even though something in her _really_ wants to ignore Frank, she does as he tells her. Her phone buzzes again.

 

**Right down the next alley. Then left again.**

 

She follows his instructions, but keeps an eye out for why she might be ducking around corners like this. As she turns into the alley she spots it out of the corner of her eye. About a hundred feet behind her, a man in a black hoodie, hands deep in his pockets, is walking briskly in her direction.

 

She scuttles down the alley, picking up the pace, and when she reaches the end she heads left just as the man behind her steps into view. She can hear his footsteps get faster, louder, and she starts breaking into a run. Where is Frank leading her? She’s behind a bunch of old brick buildings, not another soul in sight. She can hear her pursuer getting closer; he’s running too, and it sounds like he’s a lot faster than she is.

 

She’s sprinting now, looking for a way out, her phone clutched in her hand – why her phone? Why not her gun? And try as she might, she can’t quite figure out how to keep running and put her phone down and pick up her gun at the same time. But it doesn’t matter now, because she’s just run into a dead end. She stops a few inches short of a tall chain-link fence. No latch, no loose links, and Karen just might be fucked.

 

Her hand shakes. Is it adrenaline? No, it’s her fucking phone with another text.

 

**Duck**

 

She drops to her knees just as a gunshot rings out and the man before her falls to the ground. Blood and brains are leaking out of his skull and his eyes are glassy and unfocused. A dead man if she ever saw one. What was it Frank told her? “One shot, one kill,” she whispers.

 

“Damn straight,” Frank says.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Please leave a comment! Do it for Slim Shady!


	4. Buckets of Fun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... it's been a while. No excuses, but many apologies. Hope you enjoy!

He drops down from an adjacent fire escape, holstering his gun and looking grim.

“Who the hell is that?” Karen asks, and although her voice is a little shakier than she would like, she manages to make her query sound biting.

“A dead man,” Frank replies. He bends down to check the deceased’s pockets. He pulls out a wad of cash and a bag of pills. Pills that look awfully familiar.

“Is that – ?” Karen starts.

“Oxy, yeah,” Frank says. “The good stuff. The real stuff.” He tosses the bag to her and she inspects them. There’s an M stamped on one side, and around it, the outline of a square.

“Shit.”

“So you found where the hospital’s supply is going,” Frank says. “To the dealers on the streets.”

Karen shakes her head. “No, you found it. And there’s no way their whole supply is being sold at street level. There’s too much of it; it would flood the market and we’d be hearing about ODs every hour.”

Frank shrugs.

“How long have you known about this?” Karen asks.

“About as long as you.”

“Bullshit.”

Karen hears the faint screams of police sirens in the distance. No doubt they’re investigating the sound of gunfire.

“Come on,” he says. “We need to get out of here.”

She does what he says because there’s no other option – does she really want to explain the police what exactly happened here?

He leads her back through the alley and out onto an adjacent street; there’s a van parked nearby and he motions to it. “Get in.”

She climbs inside and buckles herself into the passenger seat. The van is at least a decade old, messy, and upon a quick glance in the back, she sees ammo and firearms stacked in orderly rows. “Jesus.”

“Like that?” Frank asks with a slight smirk. “Picked that stuff up a while back.”

Her stomach turns, but she ignores it. “Where are we going?”

“Somewhere safe.”

He puts the van into gear and peels out, just as Karen sees the flicker of blue and red lights down the street. They drive in silence for a while; Frank’s headed uptown, leaving Hell’s Kitchen behind.

“Staying out of the neighborhood?” Karen asks.

“It’s too hot,” Frank mumbles. “At least for now.”

“Well, you know what they say,” Karen grins softly. “If you can’t take the heat…”

“That’s a piss poor joke, Page, and you know it.” But he’s giving her that half-assed smile she’s familiar with.

“Forgive me,” she says, “But I just watched a man get his brains blown out right in front of me.”

“Better than what would’ve happened to you; I can promise you that,” Frank tells her.

“And what would’ve happened to me, Frank?” she asks accusingly. “Are you going to tell me what all that back there was about?”

He pulls the van under an overpass and turns it off. “Come on,” he says.

Karen follows him out of the van and into a nearby building. It’s old, rundown and faded. It’s got worn out green carpeting in the lobby, cracked wooden stairs and off-color patches in the ceiling and walls. It’s about as close to comfort as she imagines Frank gets. Though it does have a certain charm. He takes her up a few floors and enters into an apartment at the end of the hall.

It’s a studio, small and cramped, and filled with guns, ammo, radios and what she assumes is a police scanner in the corner. The only window is covered in newspaper and a ratty old curtain. There’s an old couch shoved against the wall, and she assumes that’s where he sleeps as there’s no room for a bed too.

“Nice place,” she says.

“I don’t spend much time here,” Frank replies. “It suits me just fine.”

Karen does a lap around the room, taking in the firearms, and Frank’s annotated maps hanging on the wall. He’s marked places around Hell’s Kitchen in red marker, she recognizes one of the dots as the methadone clinic she just visited. “How long have you been onto the Manhattan Wellness Clinic?” she asks.

“Not too long,” he says. “Started out with street dealers.” Frank joins her at the map. “After Blacksmith, the dealers scattered, no one had any shit to sling. Then suddenly,” he presses his finger to a dot on the map, just on the outskirts of Hell’s Kitchen. “Dealers start popping up again, doing double the business they were. Only it wasn’t heroin.”

“Oxy?”

Frank nods. “Caught one of ‘em; he had about a hundred on him, ready to sell.” Frank looks at her. “And it looks like you know where they’re coming from.”

“And the clinic?”

“I’ve been following the dealers for a couple weeks,” he says. “The clinic’s one of the suppliers.”

“One of them?” Karen asks. “Do you know of any others?”

“Haven’t been able to find them yet,” Frank tells her. “This one was easy to spot, junkies in and out all day, doesn’t take a genius to figure out what’s going on.”

“I met one of them earlier,” Karen says. “He said it seemed like something shady was going on in addition to free methadone for addicts.”

“Like supplying dealers?”

“More like creating new addicts,” Karen says. “I don’t have the whole picture yet, but I think the clinic is providing free health care to entice people to come in, and then giving them drugs for free.”

“Drumming up business?” Frank asks. “There are already plenty of junkies who needed a fix after Blacksmith’s heroin business folded. There’s got to be more to it.”

Karen shrugs. “I don’t have all the pieces yet. Hopefully I can find more tomorrow when I go to City Hall.”

“What’s at City Hall?”

“Tax records,” Karen says. “That should tell me who’s behind the company funding the clinic.”

“Smart,” Frank grunts.

“So you are going to tell me why you’ve been following me?”

“I wasn’t.”

She raises her eyebrow.

“Not at first,” he says. “I was tailing the guy who killed your source. I should’ve known you’d find your way into this mess too.”

“You know the driver?” Karen asks. “Where is he?”

“He’s dead. In that alley we just left.”

“Jesus Christ, Frank,” Karen whispers. She takes a seat on the couch, because screw how dirty it looks, she really needs to sit down.

“He’s an enforcer for them,” Frank tells her.

“For who, Frank?”

“Whoever’s running this shitbag scheme,” he grumbles. “I was tailing him, but he was smart enough to cover his tracks. Until you showed up.”

“And you had to kill him?”

Frank nods. “It was him or you.”

“Well, thanks for that,” Karen says. “Really.” She leans her head back against the couch and closes her eyes. The adrenaline’s subsided and she’s hit with a wave of exhaustion.

“Get some rest,” Frank says. “I’ll be back in a bit.”

Karen’s eyes shoot open. “Wait,” she says, before she can stop herself. It’s not that she’s _scared_ , or anything, but…

“You’ll be fine,” Frank says. “No one knows about this place but me. And I won’t be long.”

Karen nods and slides down the couch into something approximating the fetal position. She grabs a nearby blanket and pulls it over her body, and before she knows it she’s fast asleep.

* * *

 

A gentle hand nudges her awake, she blinks a few times to clear the sleep from her eyes and the most heavenly smell wafts her way.

“What is that?” she asks, suddenly acutely aware of how hungry she is.

“Dinner,” Frank grunts. He unceremoniously places a bucket of fried chicken in front of her, and she dives right in, manners be damned.

“Thanks,” she mumbles in between bites.

“Don’t mention it.”

Karen’s on her fourth piece of chicken before she realizes Frank hasn’t touched any of it. “Aren’t you gonna eat?”

“Not hungry,” he says. “Besides, I’m afraid if I touch your bucket you’ll bite my hand off.”

“Not if you ask first,” she says with a small smile.

“I appreciate it, but I’m fine. Got all I need right here.” He raises a cup of coffee to his lips and takes a sip.

Karen bites her tongue, not wanting to get into an argument with her current benefactor over his eating habits. And it’s not like she’s really one to talk. She rolls her eyes anyway, and they catch a glimpse of the dingy window where a bit of the newspaper is peeling back. It’s dark outside.

“What time is it?” she asks.

“Around nine,” Frank tells her.

“I guess I should get home,” she says.

“Stay here,” he says.

Frank looks at her. She looks right back.

“They know where you live,” he says.

“I can get a motel room,” she replies, aiming for nonchalant but falling somewhere between combative and idiotic.

“They’ve been following you,” he tells her flatly.

Karen sighs and glances around the room. “I can stay with Foggy,” she says. “Or Matt,” she adds quietly.

“Murdock?”

“I’d be safe there,” she says, almost a little defensively.

He jerks his chin up into a shadow of a nod and grunts in the affirmative.

Karen glances at him, an unspoken question in her eyes. She thinks she can see the answer in his. Why else would he be okay with her staying with a blind lawyer? “Then I should call him,” she says slowly.

“Maybe you should.”

Matt picks up on the third ring and it’s awkward at first – trying to explain her predicament without actually explaining anything – but Matt seems to pick up on it anyway. He tells her to come right over and Karen hangs up with an odd sinking sensation in her stomach. It’s probably the fried chicken.

Frank and Karen don’t talk in car on the way to Matt’s place and the feeling in her stomach doesn’t abate. It’s not that she wants to stay with Matt (or with anyone for that matter), but something about Frank’s hospitality, his guns and his bucket of chicken, still makes Karen a little uneasy. Not in the sense that she thinks he’s a danger to her, more like… he’s a question Karen can’t answer. He makes her angry, but she can’t stay mad at him, no matter how hard she tries. And now? He just killed a man for her and all she can say is that she’d rather stay with her shitty ex-boyfriend?

Frank seems to take it in stride though, and that just makes everything worse.

“Thanks, Frank,” she says as she climbs out of the car.

He grunts in acknowledgement. She closes the door behind her, and he drives off without another word. Karen feels like shit.

* * *

 

The walk up to Matt’s apartment reminds her of times she’d rather forget, but she made her choice and it’s a little late now to change her mind.

Matt opens the door before she knocks.

“Karen,” he says softly. “Come in.” He moves aside to let her enter and closes the door behind her. “You can take the bed. It’s a little bright in the living room, so I’m told,” he says, gesturing to the window on the far wall. Red neon lights pours into the living room from the garish billboard across the street.

“Thanks.” His apartment hasn’t changed since her last ill-fated visit. She does her best not to remember.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Matt asks.

“Talk about what?” she replies sharply. He _can’t_ seriously be asking her about that day.

“About who drove you here,” he says. He doesn’t sound angry, but he doesn’t sound too happy either.

“Not really,” Karen tells him, internally sighing with relief.

“Not even about the dead drug dealer found in an alley on 7th today?” he asks.

“Shouldn’t you know better than to ask leading questions?” Karen replies, smiling a little ruefully.

“Well, truth be told, Foggy was always a little better than me at that sort of thing,” he says. She knows it’s meant to be funny, but it hits a little too close to home.

“You don’t say.”

“Karen,” he says softly. “Maybe I don’t have the right to say this – ”

“You know you don’t,” Karen mutters.

“But I’m going to say it anyway. Frank is bad news. He’s dangerous.”

“And you’re not.”

“For God’s sake, he kills people! He shot a man in the head today in broad daylight!” Matt cries.

“I know, okay?” Karen snaps. “I was there.”

“You were – Jesus Christ, Karen. You’re going to get yourself killed,” he says.

She knows Matt can’t see the expression on her face, but God, she wishes he could. It’s not that she’s angry – no, it’s more like resigned, or disappointed, or maybe even a little regretful that any tentative advances toward friendship have been undermined by Matt’s hypocrisy.

“It feels like you’re angry at me right now,” he says after a long pause filled with Karen’s stunned silence.

She takes a deep breath. “Good night, Matt.” She shuts the bedroom door with a decisive shove and pretends she doesn’t hear Matt mutter an apologetic good night from the other side.

 

 


End file.
